THE ANGEL: SUE TOWNSEND & LINDA HORNZEE-JONES

The Angel by Sue Townsend

© Copyright BBC

Sue Townsend is the creator of Britain’s best loved and bestselling diarist, . Together the Mole diaries have sold over 8 million copies, have been adapted for radio, television, theatre and been translated into 42 languages. Her other novels include Rebuilding Coventry (1988), (1992) and Ghost Children (1998). A collection of her monthly columns for Sainsbury’s Magazine was published in 2001 entitled “Public Confessions of a Middle-aged Woman Aged 55 3/4.” Sue is currently working on her next novel: Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction. Sue was born in in 1946, is married and has four children and seven grandchildren and still lives in Leicester.

Linda Hornzee-Jones

Linda is 58 and works for a firm of wholesale haberdashers in Selsdon in Surrey. Her main passion is amateur dramatics and she works primarily backstage with props and costumes, though does occasionally tread the boards!

1 THE ANGEL: SUE TOWNSEND & LINDA HORNZEE-JONES

THE ANGEL: SUE TOWNSEND

MY MOTHER WASN’T GOOD with children, she didn’t have the knack. Dogs were her thing. She trained hers to walk on their back legs and she put red satin ribbons in their hair. I used to take her favourite dog, Mitzi, to see her after she was admitted, against her will, to The Laurels nursing home. I would stand on the lawn opposite my mother’s room and get Mitzi to wave her paws. My mother would stare out of the window from her bed and then turn her head away and weep. Dogs were not allowed inside, and, for some reason, the old people were not allowed to drink coffee either. My mother eventually died at The Laurels from infected bed sores. I once visited her unexpectedly and found her being spoon fed cold porridge by a schoolboy on work experience. My mother’s nightie was open and her breasts were exposed. I complained in writing but the owners wrote back to say that ‘my mother’s human rights had not been infringed’. I won’t allow myself to get old and helpless. I want to die before I’m sixty.

I first met Anthony Adams on my fifty-ninth birthday. He came into the shop to buy a pair of brogues. There had been no birthday cards on my doormat that morning and there were none at work either. I keep my private life to myself. I told Anthony that the brogues came in three colour-ways, black, brown and ox-blood. He screwed his face up as though he were in pain. Some people find it impossible to make a decision. He looked like the managerial type: Tall, authoritative and well dressed. “Black,” I said.

It was almost half past five when I went into the storeroom. The other girls had got their coats on and were saying goodnight to each other. We don’t have to climb a ladder to reach the stock anymore; it’s done electronically, the machinery works, most of the time. But when it seizes up an engineer has to fly in from Germany. Everything is complicated now, even the weather. When I was a girl the winters were cold, you were guaranteed snow and icicles. The summers were always hot. I would walk to school in the morning and the sun would be scorching my back. The important things in our lives were written down and recorded in little books. We had a rent book, an insurance book and a post office book; you could grasp these little books, open them and read them. And you knew where you were. The Gas Board sold gas and the Electricity Board sold electricity, and if you made a telephone call you were answered by a human being. It was a simple life, even in the towns. There were pubs, cinemas, theatres, libraries, swimming baths, an opera house and the circus came twice a year – we didn’t know that the animals felt humiliated and that it was cruel of us to laugh at their clumsy antics.

The machinery brought the size eleven brogues down to me. I knelt in front of Anthony and helped him on with his new shoes, he fumbled with the laces. I was anxious to be off, he was pale and sweating and I was alone in the shop with him.

“I don’t feel very well.” He said.

My heart sank, an image of an ambulance crossed my mind and I thought about the paperwork I would have to fill in and send to head office if he collapsed on me. I asked him if he would like a glass of water and to my annoyance he said he would, so I went into the staff kitchen and ran the tap and waited for the water to turn cold. Meanwhile I watched him on the CCTV, his lips were moving, he could have been praying or singing along to a song he could hear inside his head.

2 THE ANGEL: SUE TOWNSEND & LINDA HORNZEE-JONES

It took a full ten minutes for him to sip the glass dry. He said that something terrible had happened to him recently. To be polite I made sympathetic noises. Before I could stop him he launched into his story.

“I was lying in my bath reading the Sunday papers when I heard the doorbell ring. I live on my own, no wife, no kids, they’re long gone – but I thought sod it, whoever it is will go away, but they didn’t. That bell rang and rang and rang until I thought I’d go mad. So I got out the bath, wrapped a towel round me and went downstairs. The bell was ringing constantly, like somebody had got their finger stuck. I shouted “For fucks sake!” And snatched the door open. There was a bloke on the doorstep, my height, my build pointing a gun at my head.”

He said “Geoff Green?”

I said. “No, I’m Anthony Adams: Geoff lives opposite at number seven.”

“And this gunman ran across the road and rang the doorbell. Geoff came round the side of his house; he was carrying a paintbrush with white paint on it. A few words were exchanged then the bloke stood back a bit and fired the gun at Geoff’s head. Geoff fell onto his drive; he’d only just had it paved. Some gypsies did it with slabs they nicked off the council – the man with the gun ran down our street, jumped on a motorbike that was parked at the kerb and roared off. I ran across the road in my bare feet holding the towel round my waist. Geoff took a few seconds to die. Bits of his skull and globs of his brain were spattered on the flowers in the tub by the front door.”

He looked at me and said “Have you seen a dead body?”

I told him that I’d only seen one, my mother’s. He said he’d seen too many.

He sighed. “Poor Geoff.” Then he said “I’m responsible for killing him.”

I asked him what his name was, and he told me it was Anthony Adams. I said “Do you know why Geoff Green was killed?”

He said “No, and I haven’t asked.”

I asked him if the police had caught the murderer.

“No, they’ll never catch him – he’s a professional, a contract killer.” He said.

“Why was he killed?” I said.

“I never ask.” He said. “But he died happy, he didn’t starve to death like some poor buggers do who live only a plane ride from us.”

His face softened, I saw what he must have looked like when he was a small child.

I came very close to putting my arms around his neck and pulling his head near to mine. I said “I’d gladly swap places with Geoff Green. I’m tired of living in this world.”

3 THE ANGEL: SUE TOWNSEND & LINDA HORNZEE-JONES

He said “You look like a woman who squeezes every last bit of enjoyment out of life.” I told him that appearances are nearly always deceptive. I wanted to tell him that I would like nothing better than to be allowed to fade into darkness, to not exist, be nothing, just to be a speck that disappears into nowhere. But of course I didn’t.

He said “I’ll take the shoes.”

But it was six o’clock and the cash till had turned itself off automatically so I told him he’d have to come back tomorrow.

As I was locking up, setting the alarm, lowering the grill on the door and mobilising the security system he said “Do you know how much he was paid? Two hundred and fifty pounds.”

I was amazed.

“Two hundred and fifty pounds.” I said. “I’ve paid more than that for a week in Skegness. I thought contract killing was something only the rich could afford.”

“It’ll cost you more in London,” He said “and for VIPs, but in the provinces, for a nonentity that’s the going rate.”

He touched my elbow and said “I have a drink in the Angel most nights, would you care to join me?”

I didn’t want his pity, I’m fifty-nine, grey and fat, and could have been taken for his mother. So I told him that I had to get back, then I wished him goodnight and watched him as he crossed the road and pushed his way into the bar of the Angel. Before the door closed I heard the sounds of music and laughter.

When I got home I didn’t bother with food, I walked straight up the stairs and put myself to bed. I had liked it when he touched my elbow, it’s years since I’d been intimate with a man. I was married to my husband for thirteen happy years, then I went up three dress sizes in as many months and he left me for a girl whose thigh he could span with both hands. It wasn’t only the weight: It took me too long to get over losing the babies. I forgot how to laugh. My mouth wouldn’t smile. I grew tired of people telling me that life must go on.

I don’t think I dreamt, the night I met Anthony Adams. I slept really well and I woke up eight hours later, I’ve not done that for years.

When I got to work he was there waiting at the door.

“I’ll pay you for those shoes now.” He said.

I was a bit flummoxed, I normally open the door easily enough, but with him watching me I made a few mistakes, the alarm went off and the grill came down but I sorted it out. I asked him to sit down when we got inside while I took my coat off and turned the shop lights on. Then, when the till came on I put his shoes through. He said, “I tell you what, I’ll wear the new shoes now.”

4 THE ANGEL: SUE TOWNSEND & LINDA HORNZEE-JONES

He sat down and took his shoes off. They didn’t look old. He had obviously polished them before he came out. He put his new ones on, did the laces up, went to the mirror and admired them, quite openly admired them. Men don’t usually do that, they look through half closed eyes, as if they happened to be passing the mirror.

He handed me his old shoes and said “Can you put these in the bin.”

I said, “You can’t throw these away, they’re hardly worn. Give them to Age Concern, they’re only next door.”

He laughed and said he would. “It’s a few years since I gave to charity.”

He seemed reluctant to leave but I had too much to do, so I said “Thank you Mr. Adams.” And he took the hint and left the shop.

At lunchtime I went for a walk around the market and bought myself some sweet apricots and a bunch of jewel coloured anemones. I went into Age Concern and his shoes were there on the rack priced at two pounds fifty. I picked them up and examined them carefully; the leather was so fine that I could see the little bumps where his toes had been. There were stains on the soles that could have been blood. I thought, with a bit of luck I won’t be here this time next year. Somebody else will be managing the shoe shop, another person will be living in my house, and yet another driving my car.

Before I went back to work I queued at the hole in the wall and checked the balance in my deposit account. After I retired I wouldn’t be able to live in my house and run my car. My pension had been stolen years ago by Robert Maxwell. I withdrew two hundred and fifty pounds.

That night I went through my clothes and threw a lot of stuff away. I found a frock I’d bought but never worn; a cocktaily thing. I put it on and sucked my stomach in. Black sequins glimmered back at me from the mirror on the wardrobe door. I searched through my shoe collection for a pair of black high heels and slid them on. I folded my hair into a French Pleat, made my face up carefully and drove back into town, to the Angel. I’m not a drinker and I didn’t know what to ask for at the bar. The barman suggested a snowball; “They’re very popular with the ladies” He said.

I looked around the bar; Anthony Adams was sitting in the corner, alone reading the Daily Telegraph and drinking beer from a pint glass. He was wearing his new shoes. I sucked my stomach in and walked over to him. He folded his paper away and invited me to sit down. I sipped at my drink, “Ugh, it’s slimy and disgusting.” I said.

“You don’t have to finish it.” Anthony said, “Nobody’s holding a gun to your head.”

What happens next? Over to you…

5 THE ANGEL: SUE TOWNSEND & LINDA HORNZEE-JONES

LINDA HORNZEE-JONES’ ENDING TO THE ANGEL

I had a vision. Bits of my skull and brain spattered over something mundane like flower tubs by a front door, or shoeboxes full of brogues in three colour-ways, black, brown and ox- blood. “I think a gun would be undignified.” I said I thought Geoff Green’s death had been undignified. People should be allowed to die with their bodies intact and decent.

“Can’t always be arranged,” he said. “Everyone’s death is different.”

“But, what if you could choose to die with dignity in a place you like? I’m sure Geoff Green wouldn’t have chosen to die on his drive with a paintbrush in his hand.” I thought of Mother lying in the Laurels with her breasts exposed.

“Are you talking about suicide?” Anthony said. I said I supposed I was.

Then it all came out. How I didn’t want to grow old and helpless with no pension or savings, at the mercy of unfeeling authority that wouldn’t even let me drink coffee. How I hadn’t been able to protect my mother. And I didn’t have a daughter to care about my human rights. I was getting a bit flummoxed and people were starting to look in our direction. The barman was making a big show of polishing glasses, but he was staring straight at me

“Try to relax” Anthony said. “You’re wound up tight. Sitting there clutching your bag as if your life depends on it.”

“Maybe it’s more like my death depends on it. I’ve got two hundred and fifty pounds in this bag. It’s yours if you help me do it.”

“Two hundred and fifty pounds!” he said. “For heaven’s sake put it down!”

I leaned over and put the bag on the floor. The sequined chiffon scarf thing round the neck of the frock came unwound and hung down exposing my wrinkled neck. I fiddled with it nervously, wishing it was a veil to cover my embarrassment, until I got it tied up tight again. Anthony just sat there watching me. Eventually he spoke.

“I never know how or when it’s going to happen”, he said, “I jut know that it is. There is this Angel, you see. Yes. I know. Who believes in angels these days?” He took a swig at his pint. “Well I didn’t, until it turned up one day and told me it had come for my daughter. It – I don’t know what gender it is, I always think of it as it – said that it’s my purpose to be there to help. Like a bridge. I’m there to guide the means of death to the person and then, afterwards, I guide the soul into the care of the Angel. I don’t want to do it. I try to avoid doing things that will cause it, but I always know that I can’t stop it.”

“What happened to your daughter?” I said.

“Rather not talk about it,” he said, “but it was quick. She didn’t suffer. I was glad I stayed with her. My wife didn’t believe me. She didn’t believe me the next time either.”

“Next time?”

6 THE ANGEL: SUE TOWNSEND & LINDA HORNZEE-JONES

“My secretary was next. I asked her to photocopy some papers, but the copier was faulty and the metal casing was live. Then there was a policeman trying to sort out a minor accident when we were driving down to Cornwall on holiday. Stepped back to wave me through. He went straight in front of a lorry coming the other way. My wife didn’t believe I knew something was going to happen because the Angel was sitting in the back seat of the car between our two sons. Eventually, she got spooked by it all, took the boys and left.”

“I could understand that,” I said. “How many have there been?”

“I’ve lost count. Sometimes I try to argue with it. Especially when it’s someone young, or someone who looks like they still have a lot of living they haven’t done. Like you. When the Angel stopped me in the street outside your shop and said it wanted me to go inside, I did try to argue it out. Seemed to work, because after a while it went away. Trouble is, it’s back again.” He nodded to the seat beside me. “Right there.”

I jumped up so fast I caught the edge of the table. The snowball and Anthony’s pint glass went flying, splashing a technicoloured sticky mix all over the carpet.

The barman was round in a flash. “Alright, you two – out.” I picked up my bag and we left.

I ran across the road to the front of my shop and turned to look for Anthony. He was still standing on the other curb arguing with his invisible angel. Then he limped across the road to join me.

“Why are you limping?”

“These shoes pinch. I should have had a larger size.”

“That’s easy,” I said. I had the keys to the shop in my bag, and I had the grille up, door open, and alarm off before he could stop me. I turned on one light at the back and went into the stockroom. I didn’t bother switching the machine on for one box, and climbed the ladder. “Can’t quite see it,” I said and waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

‘You need more light,” said Anthony. He turned towards the switches on the wall. “This one?”

I shouted “No!” but it was too late. He had thumped the big green button that turned on the machine. It lunged forward and slotted one prong into the space between the chiffon scarf and the frock, pinning me to the rack. “Turn it off, this is dangerous!”

Anthony stood there and looked at me very sadly. “Sorry,” he said softly, and hit the red button. The mechanism twitched like when it pulls a shoebox out of its slot, gave my scarf a firm tug, and tried to park itself. I lost my footing on the ladder, fell into the space between the racks, and just hung there. At least it was quick. Anthony had promised me that, and he did stay with me to the end as the scarf wound tighter and tighter, squeezing the last bit of life out of me. Then with a crunching and grinding of gears, the machinery seized up.

Now they will have to fly the engineer over from Germany to fix it.

7 THE ANGEL: SUE TOWNSEND & LINDA HORNZEE-JONES

You ought to record that in your book too, or your tablets, or what ever you call them. I can’t quite see what you are writing in, but I know all the important things in life and death should be written down and recorded in little books. If the engineer’s plane crashes or something, will the deaths of all the people on the plane be put down to Anthony Adams as well? Strange purpose in life isn’t it – to be a guide for death and to deliver souls to the Recording Angel? But then everybody has the knack for doing something.

8